In the crowded Hauz Khas market, a retired army officer has seen to it that nobody goes thirsty in this sweltering heat. The terracotta urns look clean and inviting and the gradient colors of the ladles add to the brightness of the place.

While I was standing there a young mother came with her infant and gratefully filled her glass with clean water for the baby and herself.

A fruit vendor keeps an eye on these and told me that water is filled from the main house and countless people stop by with gratitude.

Inspired by one of the shares here, I too started keeping some bottles of cool, fresh water to distribute at crossings. The look of happiness on the face of the recipient is priceless! Someone who is on the road for hours without much by way of shelter or food and under the merciless sun can benefit so much from a bottle of clean drinking water… 😊

There is something about these little guys that keeps me coming back to them. They, with their little bright blankets and irrepressible spirit, the ones who run to snatch their milk bottles and are forever ready for play.

I wish things were different for them. That they had their families around, in a perfect world maybe they would, but for now I am just so glad that there are human beings that make them a priority and try and set right some of the horrible damage inflicted by others..

Huge blessing in small virtues’ byMaj Gen SPS Narang (Retd) in The Tribune:

Like a large percentage of secular Indians, I am deeply anguished at the lynching of Akhlaq in front of his family in Dadri recently. The murderers, probably with political patronage or following the diktats of some fundamentalist organisation, shred the secular fibre of our country. It is against this backdrop that I have an incident to share which may awaken the conscience of some of my fellow men.

The incident goes back to nearly a year, and even now evokes poignancy in my heart.

Last November, I was driving back to Dehradun from Chandigarh — a fascinating four-hour journey, with the added attraction of visiting Paonta Sahib Gurdwara. I had to break on the way to give myself and my car some rest. And what better than entering the abode of the Guru. Besides the soothing kirtan, it is the langar that one savours, seated on the floor among a multitude of people from all walks of life. Some partake of all meals as they have no means to satiate their hunger.

Breaking bread with them gives an indescribable spiritual high, and to experience this, one doesn’t have to belong to any one religion. I, too, enjoyed the langar and came out to get on with my journey.

I stopped to buy some knick-knacks from a kiosk outside the gurdwara. Just then, I spotted a family of Gujjars (Muslims nomads who rear cattle in semi mountains and sell milk), in an intent discussion in front of a tea vendor. The family comprised an elderly couple, two middle-aged couples and four children. Three women were partially veiled. They seemed poor as the eldest gentleman (probably the father) counted coins and some crumpled notes.

Undoubtedly, the issue was how much they could afford to buy. They asked for three cups of tea and four samosas (popular Indian snack) .

Gathering courage, I asked him, “Kya aap sab khana khayenge?” (would you all like to have food!!) They looked at one another with a mix of surprise, apprehension and a hurt self-respect.

There was silence. Sometimes, silence can be loud. The innocent eyes of the kids were filled with hope. “Hum kha ke aaaye hain,” (we have eaten already) he responded.

Hearing that, a dull ache in my chest caught me by surprise. The stern look in the eyes of the three men and the pleading moist eyes of the women said it all.

I insisted that they come with me. They agreed, reluctantly. We entered the gurdwara (Sikh Temple of God) .

A good feeling descended over me as I deposited their shoes at the jora ghar (Shoe deposite room in all Gurdwaras). The elders were awed by the architectural marvel.

However, there was fear in their eyes, which was understandable. They were entering a non-Islamic place of worship for the first time.

But the children couldn’t care less, their innocent faces single-mindedly focused on food. Some onlookers flashed strange looks from the corner of their eyes. But then I followed the children, adopting their easy attitude as they excitedly chose head wraps of different colours. (everyone is supposed to cover their heads inside a Gurdwara).

Except for the eldest member, all accompanied me inside, and emulating me, bowed their heads and touched their forehead to the floor. Many others must have noticed, as I did, that these children went through this ritual with utmost reverence. They took Parshad (offering) from the Bhaiji (The Priest) ) who asked them if they needed more. The children gladly nodded.

We entered the Langar Hall and I took the kids along to collect thaalis (plates) .

They did it with joy, like only kids would. Seated opposite us was a newly-married couple. The bride, with red bangles accentuating her charm, asked the children to sit beside her, and two of them sat between them. The way she was looking after them, I could tell she would make a loving mother.

Langar was served, and though I had already eaten, I ate a little to make my guests comfortable. One had to see to believe how they relished it. The initial apprehension had vanished and they ate to their fill. I have no words to describe the joy I experienced.

We had nearly finished when an elderly Sikh and a youth with flowing beard (perhaps the head granthi and sewadar-helper) sought me out.

I was overcome by fear, and more than me, my guests were scared. I walked up to them with folded hands.

Then, with folded hands, he walked up to the elderly couple and requested them, “Aap jad bhi idhar aao to langar kha ke jaaiye. Yeh to uparwale da diya hai ji (Whenever you happen to pass through here, please come and have food. It is God’s gift).”

I escorted my guests out of the Langar Hall. Just as we were about to pick our footwear, one of the children said, “Humme aur halwa do naa.” (Get us some more sweet offering). We five went in to get more parshad.

Finally, as they were about to depart, the elderly lady whispered to her husband.

I enquired, “Koi baat, Miyaji?” (is there any problem, Mian Ji!!

Almost pleadingly, he said, “Yeh keh rahin ki, kya aap ke sar par haath rakh sakti hain? (She is saying, can she keep my hand on my head)!! I bowed as she blessed me with tears in her eyes.

A wave of emotions swept over me.

Is it my imagination, or for real, that I often feel the beautiful hand of a Muslim lady, wrapped in purity and love, on my head?